


The Secret Gardeners

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kinda, M/M, pretentious metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:26:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: 'They sit upon the bedsheets together, As he smells the ruining. A memory that is not his, but knows well, revisiting him.'______They should not even be friends. But those who share the shadows of 3am and empty corridors can rarely do so alone.





	The Secret Gardeners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avislightwing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avislightwing/gifts), [ABookAndACoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABookAndACoffee/gifts).



> Birdie I am so sorry, I promise you these two and I just... sadded all over it.  
> Inappropriate Punny Title makes up for it all tho, rite?
> 
> \+ Leslie you know why this is for you (and thank you)

They should, in theory, 

\- the shallowest of theories -

be rivals.

 

Elain dotes upon them both. 

To the Fox she is bound by a thread of heated shame and tight pelvic muscles, something carved into her bones that crawls aflame every time she looks his way. From the Shadow, she finds companionship, escape in knowing that her scars are but scratches compared to whatever it is that shifts when she blinks. What stretches behind those not-quite-smiles. 

Lucien lusts after her like an addict, withdrawing from that he does not even remember he is locked in such agony. To look upon her is to feel his ribs being torn from his spine. Her smiles cut deep into his gut, because he knows he does not understand it. He cannot mirror back that joy, that hope. 

There is something hollow inside of him, and it is eating him alive. 

And it is dark.

So of course they would understand one another. For who understands that voice at the base of the neck, the leaching in the chest, the sinking in the stomach, the loathing itch in the skin, better than Azriel? He’s been living with it since he found himself caged within those four walls. It was seared into his skin by flames forced upon him by false kin. 

And he admires Elain as a gardener, for he has his own. Each night, he takes that sickening despair, and nurses it. Waters the soil with the day’s torture, the weekly murder. Careful never to show  _ her _ , for to shine light upon the poor thing would surely kill it. 

This self-indulgent gardening is done best in deserted hallways. Out on balconies where the abyss of the night’s sky echoes back your own beliefs. And so he soon meets the visitor in his garden; the lonesome predator that cannot survive on vegetation alone, but has grown sick of the taste of pretty chickens. They stare at one another, as if afraid to acknowledge they have been caught there, tending and prowling amongst such monstrous plants. 

But because this is all a metaphor, they instead fall to talking. 

It is the kind of talking that can only be done in hushed voices. Not to avoid detection, but because to speak to loudly  _ hurts _ . Confession is best done in whispers, and it comes pouring out of them like water. Lucien has not slept in days and he is starting to think he is going mad. Azriel is surrounded by happiness and  _ love _ and it is driving him insane. They curse Feyre and Rhysand and their puppy dog eyes, Nesta and Cassian and their damn sexual tension, and even Elain who loves so openly and freely, in a way that burns their retinas even when it is not aimed at them. 

And this thing, this  _ new _ ,  _ strange _ thing that is talking but of a new and different nature, sets things in motion that they cannot name or place but can feel unraveling within their muscle fibres. A loosening of the anxious chest, a relieving of insomnia. It feels  _ good,  _ to have it all out, ugly and honest and almost laughable splayed between them. Almost like companionship. Not just company. But true kinship. 

They sit together on the railing. Lean in. Maybe just because they are lonely. Maybe just because it has been  _ so long _ . Maybe because actually they feel for the first time in decades they like themselves for just a moment. Reasons, for just now, just between them, don’t matter.

What matters is the kiss.

It is soft and all full of feeling and sighed  _ ohs _ , to begin with. They feel stiff and out of practice, though they have fucked and kissed and fucked again countless times, not so long ago. But this is something else. Something that feels tender and starts not from the hips or the cock but in the throat, squeezed out of the chest. A kind of fluttering awakening. A shedding of light upon their mutual garden. 

And their indulgences in pity and loathing do not wilt away and wither, but they do fall back to the role of decoration for just a moment. Because they are kissing, shit and fucked-uppery bared whole and raw between them, and they are  _ still kissing _ . 

It is worth the burning.

 

*

 

They sit upon the bedsheets together, Az’s sleeves rolled clumsy up to his elbows, loose, hurried. Lucien shoved them their and made sure they stayed. He is swallowing and speechless as he looks down at the ruined skin that layers forearms. As he smells the ruining. A memory that is not his, but knows well, revisiting him. 

“I don’t mind them,” Az says, watching him. Unflinching. Face blank as a sluiced rock. Colder. 

“I do,” Lucien spits out through gritted teeth. His hands are shaking as they hold those thin -  _ too _ thin - wrists.

“I don’t think they look  _ that _ bad.” Az is shrugging and averting his eyes because he  _ thought _ he didn’t care but there is such fire in Lucien’s gaze and it is stinging his with salt water. He cannot free his hands; His shoulder has to serve as a tissue. 

“I think they’re the ugliest thing in the world.”

Azriel does not want to be there. He wishes he’d never been seen; that he would never be seen again. They are surrounded by mountains, it it would be ever so easy for him to disappear into the snowstorm upon one. Then no one would have to witness how disgusting he is. 

“That you had to endure this,” Lucien’s voice is shaking and he’s pale and cold and looks like he might be sick - oh Mother does Az know that feeling, it’s in his stomach right now. “That you  _ are _ enduring this.” Lucien needs a tissue or his shoulder but he doesn’t reach for one, just keeps staring Az dead in the eyes. “Is ugly. It is ugly that someone as wonderful and loved and as dedicated as you should have to have gone through this.” 

“But you,” Lucien is cupping his cheek and Az didn’t even realise he needed his shoulder again until he feels those hot fingers brushing away sharp water, “ _ you _ are beautiful. You are the most beautiful person I have ever known. Not for your skin.” Both hands cupping his jaw. “For all of you. Even these.”

Az looks down at those vulgar forearms. Focuses on the curves and rough edges of the burn marks. “I just need to know one thing,” Lucien says quietly. Az does not look up. “Are you still cutting yourself?”

 

*

 

They stand together at Nesta and Cassian’s binding ceremony, and with joined hands they raise their arms and cheer when the words are spoken and the fires are lit. It is joyous and warm and filled with singing, and together they both find themselves relaxing into it. Beside the other, they can afford to let their guard slip, just a little, knowing the other understands. If it gets too overwhelming, there will be a body to hide in, rather than a dark corner. 

If nothing else, one is much comfier than the other. Less prone to letting them run away with their thoughts. Nowadays, they find staying put a little easier. 

And soon Amren is drunk and chasing the sheep and Varian and the goats, and no one’s quite sure what is happening but they’re laughing and there’s no war. There’s no one to torture. There’s no falsehoods or acts of cruelty or lies; Unless Cassian’s tall tales count, but he’s got a way with words that really make you believe them. Plus Nesta is smiling and when that woman smiles, it is twice as devastating as her thunder. 

Sitting side by side upon a log, Lucien and Azriel just sit, and they listen. They have both become excellent at the craft, after so many nights just there. Listening. Sharing shadows and hungers and sickenings. Their garden is still there, in full bloom some nights too, but the flowerbeds are marked and noted. They can lie upon the lawn together and let the flowers come and go. It isn’t easy, but it’s doable. 

So Lucien is a bit drunk and leaning into his ear and whispering things that  _ definitely _ should be kept to the shadows, and Elain is giggling at them and Amren and soon dancing by the bonfire. There is snow, and laughter, and for once, no one is locked in rivalry. They just are.

And it’s a good place to be,

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you are ever feeling stuck in your own shadows, please consider finding a hotline relevant to your area from the following website to call first: http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html
> 
> They actually can help x


End file.
